The Book Thief
by Mrs. James Harold Potter
Summary: A series of one-shots following Rory and Jess through the many years of their relationship. Literati AU.
1. The Idiot

Disclaimer: None of it is mine. If it was, the GG Movie would have happened a long, long time ago.

**A/N: This used to be part of ****Exchanges on a Rainy Afternoon****. I decided to split it up into parts and flesh out the three chapters a little bit more. I'll be posting them up over the next couple of weeks. This one is pretty much the same, but the other two I'm going to revamp a lot. Love feedback on how I'm doing with these lovely characters. Love you all.**

The Book Thief

I'll never admit this to Rory, but I think I'm craziest about her when she gets angry. It takes a lot to get her to that point, but once she's there, you better fucking run, because she goes from Bruce Banner to the Hulk pretty quickly. Granted, it's my fault this time, and I theoretically _should _be running for the hills, but I am so perfectly comfortable with my executive decision to continue reading this book that Rory is currently tearing apart our living room to find.

I tuck the worn paperback into my side and fold my arms across my chest, watching her rummage through stacks and stacks of books, completely oblivious to the fact that I have been laying on the couch for the past four hours with her copy of _The Idiot. _This is the part where she begins to yell at no one in particular – the main event.

"I don't even understand where it could have gone!" she cries out in frustration, plopping on the couch next to me. "You are a book, and you have one job – let me read you. Your job is not to grow a pair of legs, with which you will inevitably run away from me with, in which case I will never be able to find you, and then we end up in this situation!" She now decides that I was the actual audience to this tirade, and turns to face me directly.

"Am I crazy? I was reading it this morning, and I put it right over there, on top of the VCR." She gestured emphatically in the direction of the TV. "Where could it have gone, Jess? Gah – I 'm so angry."

"Are you? Ror, I don't think you've made that clear enough."

"I'm going to kill you. I just want my book." She scans my face suspiciously for a moment, before sighing resignedly, getting up from the couch, and wandering towards the kitchen. In the distance I could hear the opening and closing of wooden cabinets as she reaches for a mug and began to pour herself some coffee. I am slightly disappointed that there would be no punishment for my war crimes. I need to test my fate. I can't resist, the paperback still tucked under my arm, I made a point of leaning in the doorframe of the kitchen (book out of view).

"Hey, what if I wanted to read it? Don't I get any say over who gets to read what, and when?" She rolls her eyes, sitting at the table and gazing out of the window at bustling streets of the city.

"Jess, I would tread lightly." she smirks into her coffee before looking back up at me again. "I haven't been able to look at you the same since you defiled my copy of _The Fountainhead._"

Whether or not scribbling in the margins of almost every single page of that 750 page book commentary ranging from simple criticism of Rand's ridiculous objectivist philosophies to the DSM-V definition of narcissistic personality disorder (also Ayn Rand) was the _right_ thing to do; I hardly considered myself to be _defiling_ anything of value. That being said, it was only one of the seven copies of the book we had lying around, so someone had to do something about that. This joke had gone on for long enough. I cross into the kitchen and sit in the chair across from Rory, pulling the copy of _The Idiot_ into clear view.

Rory looks down at the book, her blue eyes bulging out of her head. For a moment, I think she is going to leap across the table and rip my face off. Instead, her expression softens, and she reaches out to me, gently kissing my cheek before taking another sip of her coffee. She makes a face.

"This coffee is so gross, where did we get it?"

Suddenly, I didn't feel so badly about the book. That coffee was the same coffee had Rory had picked out three weeks before at Chelsea Market. The same coffee that I was informed that we needed to buy, that I would love, that Rory would love, that the entire world would love. The same coffee that Rory herself had woken up in the middle of the night the night before and informed me in her half-wakeful stupor that we needed to wake up at 7 am in the morning on a Saturday to rush to buy this coffee. The same coffee that we both sampled and hated, and the same coffee that Rory insisted that we needed because our tastes would change and then we would be regretting our decision.

"I don't know, but it's not nearly as _gross_ as the woman who forced me to wake up at 7 am on a Saturday morning to _buy _it in the first place."

"You're lucky I love you, otherwise you would have died a long time ago—it's only fair that you know this." She chances a look at my face, but quickly looks away again, too tempted by my smirk.

"If it weren't for my devilishly good looks, we both know my hatred of Ayn Rand would have kicked me to the curb a long time ago." She purses her lips to prevent them from curling into a full smile, a habit formed in times like these where letting Jess Mariano win a fight was simply not an option.

"Well, you should know that Paul Ryan worships Rand. If you keep stealing my books before I finish them, I might just have to give him a chance."

"Together, you and Paul Ryan will start a new fascist regime. I wonder how many voters you guys will pull in." Rory stands up abruptly, still keeping the light tone of the conversation, but also mildly offended.

"She was not a fascist! I am not going to get into this with you agai—" I swiftly get up from the table, entangling my fingers with hers. She almost considers continuing the pseudo argument, but I suppose she decides that she likes where this scenario is going much more. _Saved._ Rory leans back against the counter tugging on the belt loops of my jeans to pull my body against hers. Her lips collide with mine. I can feel her breasts through the thin material of her tanktop and suddenly I didn't feel much like coffee talk anymore.

Sometimes I have these moments where I feel like I am watching myself outside my body. I find it hard to believe that I am living this life, in flesh and blood, and I am living in this one bedroom apartment in the city with my best friend, who just so happens to be the love of my life. And she's real. And she's standing here in front of me, with her fucking hands in my belt loops making me want her even more and she's kissing me. She's standing here, and she's kissing me, and she's Rory. The same Rory whose copy of _Howl_ I had stolen so many years ago, whose pathetic lunch basket I had paid way too much money for, whose charm and infallible wit I had fallen in love with, whose heart I had broken, and whose faith in me drove me to succeed. Whose phone call five years ago had finally converged our endlessly parallel lives. I don't know how the fuck any of this happened, but I'm starting to think I should stop questioning it and just let myself have the moment without playing a game of 20 questions with myself.

Right now, I'm having one of those moments. And maybe she is too, but she'll never feel the depth of it quite like I do. She'll never know of all those years I sat around detesting libraries and video stores. Every book I read, or movie I watched, or even song I listened to seemed to catalog a different moment in my time with Rory. There were girls. But there are girls, and there are girls like Rory. She never left me, in all these years. I guess I never really left her either, otherwise we wouldn't have ended up the way we did.

"Hi," she murmurs into my ear, and I can feel her smiling into my neck. The blood is rushing to my head and I am seventeen years old leaning against a gas pump contemplating a cigarette.

"Hi yourself," I murmur back, running my hands up and down the length of her body. Her heart is pounding so hard I can feel it against my chest, synchronizing itself with my own. She was reading my thoughts. She pulled away from me for a second, scanning my face for an emotion. The corners of her mouth finally curl into that smile and she rests her head contentedly against my shoulder for a while as we stand there in our tiny kitchen like it was the most normal thing in the world. She suddenly pulls away, clearly irritated.

"I can't believe you! _This_ is your ploy to get me to give you the book? Seducing me? Well guess what? It's not going to work on me this time." She picks up the copy of _The Idiot,_triumphantly shoving it into her messenger bag and apparently quite pleased with herself after catching me in the midst of my 'act.' "I have to go to work, but I'll see you later. And don't get any ideas!" She kisses me, before running off to the bedroom to change and to head uptown to the Times.

Later that night, I come home to find _The Idiot_on the bedside table on top of a bunch of other books, with Rory passed out with another book folded over on her stomach. She's done this every night this week, and every night, I follow the same routine. I flip off the light switch, and take the book off her stomach, dog-earing the page she is on, before setting it on the stand. This time, however, I notice something different. Rory left me a post it on the cover, very much aware of our ongoing routine.

_You can finish _The Idiot_. I found something much better. Love you, Rory._

And there, now sitting on our bedside table, was that same tattered copy of _Howl_ from so many years ago.


	2. A Million Little Pieces

Chapter 2- A Million Little Pieces

_Five Years Earlier_

Standing at the edge of the bridge, watching Rory read a book with a title too far away to discern, I feel less like Jess Mariano and a lot like a professional stalker. Her hair is longer than when I saw her last at Truncheon. Yes, ladies and gentlemen; hair does, in fact, grow. It is a mild May afternoon, and Rory Gilmore is sitting thirty feet away from me, the closest she's been in years.

I momentarily consider turning around and driving back to Philly. I resent myself a little for coming all this way. Rory Gilmore leaves me a voicemail saying she wants to talk and suddenly the world stops and my heart is pounding and I'm in my car listening to the Clash driving to Star's Hollow, not really thinking about any of the implications. The last time Rory and I even interact, I am a pawn in this Logan-Huntzberger-retributive-justice-plot and she comes to see me and kisses me like she did at Sookie's wedding, and for a split second I think we are on the same page. We aren't. She isn't the Rory I remember. I drag myself across the bridge for the thirty feet that feels something like a marathon. I feel more and more anxious the closer I get to Rory's crouched form.

"_A Million Little Pieces."_ She greets me so fittingly without even turning to look, closes the paperback, and gestures for me to sit beside her. She silently protests my presence, refusing eye contact as we sit there in silence, staring out at the water. Perhaps the old Jess would have appreciated this tacit expression of mind, but this Jess is impatient. This Jess is tired.

"Rory, what am I doing here?" She finally breaks away from her view of the lake, and looks me in the eyes. She is older, but as beautiful as ever.

"I don't know, what are any of us doing here? The fatalistic question, few are brave enough to tackle it. You can't just ask me that out of -" She senses my lack of enthusiasm, and after nervously smiling and flushing a shade of red perhaps a shade lighter than a fire truck, I watch her deflate. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have called you out of the blue like this. How are you?"

"Good."

"Good?"

"Good." I want to make myself vulnerable to her, but I keep replaying that night at Truncheon.

"Your voicemail." I supply, mentally replaying the voicemail so Rory-esque in its tone and delivery that a pathetic sap like myself couldn't possibly refuse her the three hour drive to Star's Hollow.

_"Jess?" her voice said unsurely. She had been crying. I could hear it in her voice. "Jess, I think this is your phone. I'm assuming it is, because Luke gave to me when I asked him for it. I don't really know what motivation Luke would have to give me the wrong phone number, unless you're on the run and part of Witness Protection. Okay, I guess that's not a possibility. Well, hopefully it is the right number. This could really be anyone. Luke's organizational skills have pretty much taken a nosedive since moving in with Mom. If this isn't Jess, then I am so sorry. You have the pleasure of listening to a mildly drunk, crazy girl deliver the monologue of a lifetime. So here I am. Tonight is my last night following the Obama campaign, I actually come home next week. It has been an incredible eight months, and I have met so many amazing people, and I have a bunch of interviews lined up next week in Boston and New York at a bunch of major news stations." She paused, unsure if she wanted to proceed with this phone call. "This is a stretch, but I want to see you. No gimmicks, I promise. It's just… been a while. Call me back if you want to meet up, I'll be in Star's Hollow this weekend."_

"My voicemail." She repeats quietly to herself.

There should be a fight or some sort of struggle, but instead we are sitting there in this comfortable silence for what feels like hours. We've been apart for years, and yet it feels like only minutes have passed since I've seen her last.

"I think this is what we do." The words fall out of my mouth before I have the opportunity to think about it. It _is_ what we do. Rory still isn't saying anything. My heart is racing, and I debate whether or not I should say the words I'd be contemplating the whole time. Fuck it. "Rory, we've always been endgame. I know it, and I really hope you know it too." It's exactly what I told her that night at Yale, but when I say it now, it has the maturity and authority I lacked four years ago.

Wordlessly, she reaches out and runs her hand along the length of my arm, finally stopping at my hand to lace her fingers with my own. She knows why she leaves me that voicemail, and quite frankly, I do too.

With Rory, there is no score to settle. There is no conversation to be had. Theoretically, there should be. There should be a three hour conversation about all the hurt we have caused one another. I imagine it would be dramatic, with lots of tears and intense declarations and accusations of love and betrayal. Rory would blame me for leaving for California, telling her I loved her too soon, and begging her to run away at Yale. I would blame her never fully trusting me while we were together, becoming this person so far from the person she always promised me she would be, and using me that night she came to Truncheon. But no matter how much I think of the bad, the proverbial scales will always tip in her favor. I look at Rory, and my heart is full. You can love infinite amounts of people, but you only fall in love once. And I have this distinct memory of watching _Almost Famous _in spite of the nauseating smell of Sandeep's and feeling like my life could easily be that way every day for the rest of my life. I remember that everything I am and could hope to be is thanks to a certain blue eyed Rand enthusiast, and realize that the concept of hashing out old issues is useless because I could never fall out of love with Rory Gilmore and I doubt she ever fell out of love with me.

She instinctively edges closer to me and rests her head against my shoulder, and I know she feels the same.

"I want it to work this time." She finally admits, and she is terrified. "And it will. We will make it work. Occam's razor." _The simplest solution is often correct. _

I wrap my arm around her and we sit like that for a while, holding onto each other. Wholly unsure of what the future may hold, but taking comfort in the fact that for once, we can tackle it together.

"So," I start, in an attempt to reestablish the normalcy. "I don't want to disappoint you or anything, but James Frey made up a lot of his so-called 'autobiographical' novel. Chris's edition of it has an entire apology behind the title page. I am only trying to protect you from the same disappointment as the rest of us." She smiles to herself knowingly before looking up meet my eyes and I swear that is the moment I know with certainty that everything is going to be okay.

"Consider me protected. It's Oprah you might want to drop a line to, since his trials and tribulations have landed him an honorary spot in _Oprah's Book Club." _

"I'll make it a priority." I murmur, wondering if this means that things are truly okay. But she laughs at my comment, and it's a very familiar laugh. _That laugh. _She pulls at the pages of the already worn down paperback, and after everything I hear her laugh a genuine laugh that I haven't heard in years. Rory is back.

"I'm glad I came." She has the most peculiar expression on her face when I say it, and for a moment I'm not really sure what she's going to do. She leans over and kisses me gently on the lips, a simple gesture, full of love and hope.

"It's good to have you back, Dodger."


	3. The Catcher in the Rye

Chapter 3 – The Catcher in the Rye

"Remind me why we are descending into hell for the next twelve hours?"

"Because you agreed to it, like three months ago!" Rory dismisses my pleas and is more concentrated on picking a new CD for us to listen to. She settles on a Pink Floyd album, and contentedly leans back against the leather seat, in spite of the muggy, summer heat.

"I don't remember that. Maybe I was drugged."

"You agreed to this of your own accord, mister. No drugs were involved in the process. Although perhaps you were just intoxicated by the greatest drug of all, love." I snort, rolling down the window slightly as "Another Brick in the Wall" plays over the speakers of my shitty Toyota Corolla.

"Huh. Don't think so."

"'How do I love thee, let me count the ways…'" Rory muses on, clearly pleased with herself.

"You sound like one of Matt's poets. Coercing me against my will to come to this cult celebration of summer does not qualify or even remotely resemble love." It truly was a cult. The last time I came to this summer festival was the summer after Rory came back with D.C., still with Dean. For a moment, I'm in awe that all of this originally transpired almost ten years ago. It seems like a distant memory, but somehow the memories are as fresh and vivid in my mind as though they had happened earlier today.

"It didn't take much." She mutters sardonically, pulling her hair back into a messy bun.

"If I remember correctly, we weren't exactly clothed at the time. The decision was pretty much made for me." Rory looks out the window, trying to avert my gaze and conceal her laughter.

"Oh, I don't remember that detail." She says innocently, cocking her head to the side in a feigned attempt to recall the Rory Gilmore seduction tactics we both know so well.

"You took advantage of me at a weak moment."

"Poor baby. Maybe next time you'll be stronger. Besides – Luke will be around. You guys can have your unibomber fun while the rest of humanity enjoys the festival." She had a point. No matter how many years spent with a Gilmore girl, I knew I could count on Luke to detest the idea of Taylor gallivanting through the streets shouting about ice cream and pretzel stands.

"Luke and I will be the _epitome _of fun while you and Lorelai waste away your life reliving _American Bandstand_ with Dick Clark and the rest of the insanity wagon." Rory is laughing, but is too busy unwrapping a package of Twizzlers to respond. "No, but actually Ror – the concept of this carnival thing is so phony, I don't even get why – "

"Settle down, Holden Caulfield." She snatches the newly opened package of twizzlers out of my reach. "For that awful reference, I am suspending all Twizzler privileges until further notice. You should know better, Jess Mariano."

"Come on – you're the one who agreed with me initially. He changes at the end. He's telling the whole story in retrospect!" I consider continuing, but realize this will most likely end up in a fight. Our trip back to the city from Star's Hollow last Christmas transformed itself into a heated discussion (screaming match) about whether or not _The Catcher in the Rye _could really be considered a bildungsroman. According to Rory, the apparent resident expert on this novel, Holden emerges from his experiences completely unfazed by it all. I disagree. Strongly. I also recognize that rehashing the issue will launch World War III, and I'm trying to keep the peace here. But Rory has a dark look in her eyes, and I instantly know she has procured a bargaining chip. She's playing dirty.

"You come with me to the festival, and I will read it _one_ more time, at which point we can revisit this pointless topic. Please note, I am using the word pointless because we both know that I am already right about this."

I want to reject her deal on principle, but Rory knows too well that even the opportunity for her to read one of my favorite novels, even if it ends in another fight, is far too tempting for me to turn down.

"See! I told you it would be worth it." Rory insists, as we sit on the bridge with evidence of the day's torture spread out methodically around us. Empty popcorn containers, carnival prizes, and melted cotton candy. _Worth it_ wouldn't be my choice wording in describing the day, but I can't exactly say I didn't enjoy myself either. Who knows. Maybe she has turned me into a masochist.

"Miss Patty grabbed my ass and told me I was 'firm as ever.'"

"The woman knows a fine buttock when she sees one!" She daringly meets my eyes with a knowing look on her face. I can't tell if she's flushing, or if her fair skin is simply burnt red from the day's activities. I'm going with the former.

"Taylor recommended that I change up my style because _apparently_ I'm setting myself up to be criminally profiled."

"He's _clearly_ trying to protect you." She suggests amusedly, picking at the remnants of the popcorn container.

"Kirk pulled me aside when you were talking to Lorelai and asked me if I knew of any acupuncturists in the city who specialize in sexual dysfunction."

"So… all and all a successful day?" She scans my face expectantly. These stupid small town traditions are somehow significantly less stupid with Rory as my guide, captivated by it all.

"I'll admit that this whole summer festival thing isn't nearly as bad when you don't have Courtney Love glued to your face." Rory rolls her eyes.

"I think we can both agree that your date this time is much better." She sticks her tongue out me. "Not exactly the president of the I-heart-Shane-fanclub."

"Eh, debatable. Besides, I'm the president. You could be the vice-president if you want." I teasingly remind her. Rory fakes disgust and gently pushes me away, only to immediately pull me closer and press a kiss to my shoulder.

"Shane was a war tactic to get to me." She dismisses the thought of the blonde complacently, looking back up at me. "It was good thinking on your part, but if you were trying to win me over, I think you could have lured me a little faster with a trail of poptarts."

Rory prattles on about poptart flavors, but I'm finding it hard to concentrate on the nuanced implications of cherry versus s'mores poptarts when my mind is filled with a single all-consuming thought. I finally seize the opportunity to interrupt her.

"Let's get married." Typical Jess Mariano, flying by the seat of my pants. She and I are both equally surprised at my words. Surprised, but maybe this _is_ what I want.

"Jess, you don't even like poptarts that much. I hardly think that - " I cut her off, becoming more sure of myself with every passing second. This is what I want. It's what I wanted ten years ago when we were last at this summer hellfest, it's what I want now, sitting on this bridge talking about poptarts, and it's what I will want fifty years from now when our bones grow old and tired. I've always wanted to be with Rory Gilmore, and I am wondering why this moment hasn't happened sooner.

"No, Ror. Let's do it. Let's get married. I want to spend the rest of my life with you…and your disgusting poptarts."

Rory opens her mouth a couple of times to say something, presumably about poptarts, but is at a loss for words. She has that look in her eyes that I have seen so many times before. Initially she is flustered, and I can tell she doesn't quite know what to say, or how she wants to say it. But when she finally looks at me, she's giving me that look. It's the same look that she gave me five years ago on the bridge that convinced me that everything would work out. She reaches out and runs her fingers through my hair and that trademark smile is forming on her lips.

"Me and my poptarts are a package deal… so if you're willing to take on a lifetime of poptarts, I think we could work something out. So yeah, let's do it."

"Some sort of agreement could be reached." I agree with a smirk, my eyes locked with hers.

"Jess," She says more seriously now, turning her body to face me completely. "I'm in love with you. I want to spend the rest of my life being in love with you."

"That's the plan." Rory pushes the carnival remnants out of the way, wrapping her arms around me. A comfortable silence fills the air, our hearts are full. I briefly think about the last ten years, and am truthfully surprised that in the end, it comes down to this simple moment. Rory sits up suddenly and turns to me, her eyes alight.

"So now that I'm stuck with you, do I really have to read _Catcher in the Rye _again?"

"Well now you have all the time in the world." I remind her, distracting her with a kiss. I mentally remind myself to stick my favorite annotated copy under her pillow tonight when we get back to the city.

"Huh." She whispers happily, mocking my favorite monosyllabic line. "I guess I do."

**A/N: So that's the final installment of this little ficlet. Much thanks to my lovely friend, RedHollowGirlx. Our conversations always give me the push to write, and for that I am eternally grateful. Thank you to everyone who reads and reviews my stories, your feedback to me is always so welcomed and appreciated. **


	4. A Farewell to Arms

Chapter 4 - A Farewell to Arms

"Of all the gin joints in the world, you walk into mine." I jokingly start, feigning surprise at the sight of my seventeen year old daughter already seated at my usual bench. Standing in front of her, I am able to fully take her in for a moment. She is the perfect mixture of myself and Rory. It's almost as though some higher power just flipped a coin on every feature, and Catherine ended up inheriting an equal amount of traits in both of us. My dark unruly hair. Rory's electric blue eyes. My crooked smile. Rory's nose. It's strange for me sometimes to think that Catherine is a living, breathing person that Rory and I created all those years ago. She loves Sour Patch Kids, but hates all chocolate, much to the chagrin of her mother and grandmother. The first time she read _A Handmaid's Tale, _she was thirteen years old and we found her passed out on the floor of her room with the book on her face. She follows the Gilmore bloodline in their distaste for all physical activity, but never passes up on the opportunity to go to a concert. She shares a mutual love with me for Almost Famous, but unfortunately has inherited some of Rory's more questionable literary tastes. She only writes in blue ink pens, and has a huge crush on Mark Ruffalo, for reasons beyond all logical power. She hasn't a clue of what she wants to do in her life yet, but something tells me she's going to figure it out soon. All of these individual characteristics form a whole person. A whole person that Rory and I created. It completely blows my mind every time I think about it.

"Sit down, Humphrey Bogart, we've got business to discuss." I cock a skeptical eyebrow at her, leaning back in my seat. There is a small fraction my mind that is wondering why we didn't do this back at our apartment, but she pulls out my annotated copy of _Farewell to Arms_ and plops it on the table and I instantly know why we are here.

"So how is it," she says questioningly, making a point of leaning forward and lowering her voice so that only I could hear it. "That this book mysteriously gets shoved into my pillowcase once every three weeks?"

"Huh. Tooth fairy mixing it up this year?"

"Yeah, this Tooth Fairy really seems to like Hemingway. And crappy newspaper clippings from like a hundred years ago about his life." There was some truth in that. The tooth fairy definitely had a thing for Hemingway, because the Tooth Fairy was me. With parents like Jess Mariano and Rory Gilmore, Catherine was destined to live in the perpetual warzone of a literary household.

"Good taste. I wonder if she's read _A Moveable Feast._"

"I don't know, but I'm sure she'll make a point of putting an annotated copy of that under my pillow next time."

"Wow, and a critic too. So… what did you think?" I press, reaching across her lap and stealing a sip of her coffee. When she expectantly reaches out for the rest of it, I tip the now-empty coffee cup towards her. Parental privileges rock, and she definitely wants to punch me in the face.

"Dad, I'm gonna be totally honest here, if you make me read even another sentence of Hemingway's, then I am going to gauge my eyeballs out."

"That's a strange sentence. Why don't you try again?"

"Hello, I'm Ernest Hemingway and I hate women. Not only do I hate women, but I hate complex ideas. And sentences. And words. And ideas. Actually, any combination of those things. But I love men. Can't get enough of men, and war. Manly war. Manly war with guns and shooting and poised women with perfectly coiffed hair. Such is the life of a man. Oh man. I'm so tired from being such a manly man, let me go crack open a beer and tell my war buddies about it. God, it's so hard being a man." Her tirade leaves her completely breathless and red in the face. She reminds me of Rory at the bridge on a day in Star's Hollow with an empty picnic basket between us.

"So I didn't really get to check in with Jesus before I got here, but how exactly does the whole crucifixion process work? Should I just get up on the cross and you nail me there? Do I nail myself there—" Cat has the same unamused look on her face that Rory gets whenever I take a book before she's done reading it and won't tell her where I've hidden it.

"Um, dad this is a business meeting. _So_." She says excitedly, her lips curling into a wicked grin. She can't hold it in any longer. "I initially figured I would just have a one-on-one intervention for your midlife crisis since you seem to be fundamentally troubled by mine and mom's rejection of your misunderstood woman hater. But _then, _I found your empty pack of cigarettes in the garbage last night." _Shit._ I groaned. Rory would kill me if she found them. I had pretty much quit smoking, but every once in a while I snuck a cigarette or two. "What do you want?" When I mumble this, it is more of a statement than a question, and makes me feel like the roles have reversed; I am the seventeen year old bargaining with the parent. I quickly survey the area by peering over my shoulder to make sure Rory isn't nearby to overhear the illicit trade about to take place.

"Dad, it's so simple. No more subliminally coercing me into liking Hemingway. 'Subliminal' is a nice way of saying, 'no more fucking Hemingway under any circumstances unless you want mom to enforce poptart-to-mouth delivery services from now until the end of time when I show her the empty pack of cigarettes you left on the floor of the car'. The former is just a little shorter and to the point." I almost strike a deal, when I notice her palm-sized hickey, partially obstructed by her raven hair. Time to change tactics.

"Deal. But I don't know Cat," I straightened up in my seat, concealing a smile. "Ernest would probably have some great things to say about that nice contusion you have on the side of your neck." She's mortified, but relaxes when I appear to be more amused than upset.

"It's a guy." She admits, the flush returning to her face.

"Oh, so a flock of pigeons didn't attack you in the park? I'm glad." I'm trying to play the "cool dad" act, but for the first time I realize I have no idea how to do that.

"You're squirming. This is awesome. And also your punishment for naming me after that awful excuse of a female protagonist." She rolled her eyes. "And _yes,_ that means I read it." She mutters that last part bitterly, catching the triumphant glint in my eyes.

"Hey, we could have picked much worse names."

"Try me."

"Major major?" She snorts, mildly impressed that I would even think of such a thing.

"Like UK band or _Catch 22_?"

"It's mildly terrifying that we created you."

"Huh." She laughs at the thought, mimicking my favorite response. However, after checking her phone, she abruptly gets up from the bench. She grabs her book, wraps a loving arm around my shoulders, and hurriedly kisses me on the cheek. "I have to go, see you at home!"

I watch her run away until her dark hair turns around a corner towards Washington Square Park. She's probably meeting someone. It made me feel nostalgia for a time not too long ago when I was in Washington Square Park, chasing a girl on this bench, who by some twist of fate, ended up being Rory Gilmore.

"When did we get so old?" I groan, crawling into bed next to Rory when I get back to the apartment later that night. She is so incredibly focused on what she's doing that her eyes are lightly glazed over. I plant a gentle kiss on her collarbone, a feeble attempt to distract her from the pocket notebook on which she was haphazardly scribbling tasks for her interns. When my only response is distracted assent, I patiently wait, connecting the constellation of freckles along her bare arm with my fingers. It's been almost twenty-five years, and she is just as beautiful as the day I first saw her.

"Let me just finish this real quick." she begs, crossing out two items on the list, adding three others, and then snapping the notebook shut. "Okay, done. And if we feel old imagine mom and Luke." She happily places the notebook on the bedside table, turning over on her side to face my body, intertwining our legs, our faces only inches away from the other.

"Your mom and Luke are old, _we_ have iPhones." I remind her happily. I realize this isn't as great a feat as I think it is, but considering I only stopped using my flip phone when the two halves physically detached, my iPhone was a monumental achievement.

"As does a large portion of the technologically capable world." She reminds me, kissing me swiftly on the lips before I get back up to turn off the light. When I lay back down, Rory raises her head to nestle into the crook between my shoulder and chest. We settle into this comfortable silence, until we are disrupted by the accidental slamming of a front door by a certain teenage daughter. She's sneaking out. My instincts tell me there's a definitely connection between where she's going and guy she so casually mentioned earlier.

"Do we say something?" A little voice at the back of my head reminds me of the love bite on the side of her neck. I start to picture who it could be. I think of myself at seventeen. First I think of myself. Worst case scenario. Then I think of someone like that blonde dick. Even worse case scenario. Then I think of the Jolly Green Giant. Okay, so there's actually no best case scenario here. Is this what it feels like to be an overprotective father?

"She… slating….mmm own…" Rory sleepily mumbles to herself, completely unconcerned. She slides a soft hand over my mouth, her way of imploring me to shut up and let her sleep. "She's dating someone, I forget his name – Luca? Peter? Vito?"

"So now he's a Corleone?"

"Yes, Jess he's a Corleone." She sits up, very awake and clearly amused by my concern. "This is fun. You're worried about her."

"He could hurt her." I mutter to myself. I can't help but remind myself of the reckless, 17 year old version of myself. Rory drags me out of my thoughts and squeezes my hand reassuringly.

"I mean, I can't exactly say we were much better. She'll be okay. She knows what happens when you cross Vito Corleone." She tugs on the waistband of my pants, pulling me closer to whisper in my ear. "You're such a mush now."

"But the sexy kind." I try to save myself, but I know she's kind of right. Fatherhood crumbled the last bits of my rough bad-boy exterior. By my standards, I'm maybe a step above Danny Tanner.

"I can't wait for when all your gray hairs come in, you're going to look like the love child of Richard Gere and Joe Strummer." She absentmindedly plays with the hair at the back of my head, as my hand sneaks up the front of her shirt, resting on the bare skin of her stomach.

"Oh jeez, I guess that's one way of putting it."

"It's going to happen, and when I'm right…" She closes the space between our lips, kissing me deeply.

"Poptart-to-mouth delivery service?" I instantly remember where I got that idea, and wonder if Cat already told Rory about the cigarettes. Knowing her, she already did. Brat.

"That sounds cool! Where can I sign up for that?"

"Ask our daughter, it was her idea." I pause. She definitely knows. I decide to casually mention the book, to gauge Rory's response to it. "She was pretty pissed about my latest attempt to convert her."

"If she's truly my daughter she won't even acknowledge that it's not half bad until fifteen years have elapsed."

"I'm sorry what?"

"Wow, I'm so tired… can't focus…need sleep…" Rory playfully tries to wriggle out of my arms and turn over but I wrap my arms around her small frame, catching her with a kiss. She melts into my embrace.

"Admit it." She examines my face for a moment, debating her next move. Truthfully, the anticipation is killing me. The thought of Rory Gilmore admitting Hemingway is anything short of material to feed to a bonfire is too much to imagine.

"If I wasn't so livid about the cigarettes Cat found, I probably would tell you I actually kind of liked it when I reread it last week. But I just _can't_ give you that right now." She eases back into my arms with a content smile, and I kiss her on the lips, an understood apology. She accepts. "Yeah, yeah, love you too." She mumbles grumpily, finally slipping into a restful slumber.

**A/N: I know I said that the last chapter was the LAST one… but I kept wanting to write more. Catherine is the main love interest in A Farewell to Arms. I read a story a long time ago where Rory and Jess had a daughter named Catherine, and when I was thinking of a name to give her, that name jumped out at me. I'm also currently reading the book (and love the name in general) so I decided to use it! What do you guys think of this future jump? Is there more you'd like to see? A specific book I should write a chapter on? I am open to continuing this in any way possible. I am also in favor of time jumping anywhere in the past, present, or future. Let me know what you want to see and I will do my best to bring it to you lovely readers. I hope you guys liked it!**


	5. To Kill a Mockingbird

Chapter 5 – To Kill a Mockingbird

_Eighteen years ago_

"How about this one?" I suggest, passing Rory a photograph of a small, one bedroom apartment in the East Village we had looked at earlier this week. As much as Rory and I have come to love my cramped studio apartment, we agreed that it was time to let it go of a good thing and look for a new apartment, one that preferably had a bathroom with enough space to spin around in a circle.

"No, it's too… _loud_." She cocks her head to one side with a look of dissatisfaction, before tossing the photograph into the growing 'NO' pile.

"How do you get loud out of this? It's completely empty and the walls are white."

"Yeah, exactly. This apartment screams, 'I'm ephemeral and simplistic and I don't need color on my walls to prove my point'" She waves another picture around my face emphatically as she speaks. I begrudgingly remove the photo out of her hands, mentally preparing myself for a long afternoon.

"So this one's a no because it's having an existential crisis" I mutter, tossing the picture into the rejection pile, scanning the table for a better option. "This one?" I suggest, holding up a brownstone in Williamsburg that Rory seemed to like originally, but from the look of irritation that crosses her face it becomes very clear the Williamsburg brownstone was no longer an option.

"It says no pets allowed." she says pointedly, as though I should have known this would be the dealbreaker from the start.

"I guess that means we're going to leave our three dogs, two cats, and rabbit behind?"

"Maybe we don't have them now, but what if we change our minds? Do we really want to limit ourselves like that?"

"Last week you compared walking Paul Anka to walking the Trail of Tears and now we're starting an animal adoption agency?"

"It's oppressive. We should have room. Like in this apartment." Rory picks up a two bedroom apartment by Union Square that we fell in love with at first sight. It was right on 14th Street, and the bedroom already had bookshelves built in the walls. It was built above a record store, and was exactly three blocks from Truncheon. It was a pipe dream, and we agreed we couldn't afford it, especially since we had no use for the second bedroom.

"Rory, I thought we agreed…"

"We need the space!" Her voice is argumentative, borderline hysterical, and her eyes are alight with an emotion I can't recognize.

"For… guests."

"For the pope and his entire family? Because that's what this could fit."

"You never know!"

"Rory, come on!"

"Jess, can you just drop it? I'm pregnant." I look up at her. The statement is so ridiculous it definitely warrants a disbelieving smirk, and for a second I am expecting her to continue with the joke. She claps a hand to her mouth in disbelief of herself. Rory finally breaks the silence. "Wow, it feels a lot different saying that out loud and even more so because it's true. I looked it up in the dictionary… 'pregnant' and it has an alternate meaning that something is 'full of meaning'. I kind of disagree with that because I have no idea what this means for me or for anything really. I could also say that 'I'm with child' but I kind of hate the way that sounds, don't you? I'm 'with child' but that makes no sense either because my child is not _with_ me. It's in me. Semantics. It's a little less ambiguous but I guess too wordy to say 'hi I have a fetus in my stomach that will turn into a child in nine months.'" By this point Rory has stood up and is pacing around the living room. She sits on a pile of hardcover books, toying with a first-edition copy of _To Kill a Mockingbird._

"You are pregnant." I repeat to myself slowly, hoping this dictation will urge my body to wake up from what seems like an out-of-body experience.

"Are you having an aneurysm? We covered that like three minutes ago." Rory gives me about half a second for a rebuttal before ignoring me completely and continuing her rant, a crazed look in her eyes. I am trying my best to keep up but my brain has slowed down to about a quarter of its normal rate.

"How am I supposed to be a parent when my two best role models in that department are the demigods of parenting, Lorelai Gilmore and Atticus Finch? How am I supposed to emulate their wisdom when I have systematically destroyed every toaster we bring into this apartment? I _broke_ a coffee mug." She tightly clutches _To Kill a Mockingbird_ to her chest as though it were a shield. "I work at the New York Times and you are in the process of managing Truncheon in two different cities _and _writing a second book. We can't bottle feed babies and sing them nursery rhymes. I don't even know any nursery rhymes! That's apparently important too… isn't it? We can't knowingly bring a child into this world while contributing to its own mental decay! Are you supposed to sing nursery rhymes? Because neither one of us can sing so how is _that _going to work out….oh god." She gets up, wildly gesticulating at me with the book still clutched in her hand. "Jess, you need to say something!"

I finally open my mouth and what I manage to intonate to no one in particular confirms all suspicion that I have literally nothing of value to contribute to this conversation. "I can't sing either…." Rory's eyes widen, and for a moment I think she's going to schedule us both voice lessons. She laughs in spite of herself and collapses on the couch again.

"Okay," Rory says, exhaling deeply. "So I think we're both freaking out here. I'm calm. You're calm." She takes a deep breath, closing her eyes in meditation.

"Saying it doesn't make either one of us any less calm." She laces her free hand with mine, stroking it with her thumb as we sit there contemplating our next move. It does calm me down, if only for a moment.

"So when I originally told you that in my head, I gave you a little more room to talk."

"And instead you delivered the Gettysburg Address." She smiles embarrassedly, burying her head into my shoulder.

She lifts her head up and meets my gaze. "You want to do this?"

"I want to do this. I really want to do this. I just…okay I need to get out for a little." Rory looks concerned for a second and I realize how flighty I sound. "No, I promise. I want to do this. I hope you know that. I just… gotta go, for a little bit. I don't know, I just gotta go." Rory ponders this for a moment before walking over to the kitchen counter and tossing me my cigarettes. She offers me a knowing smile. "Get out of here Jack Kerouac, I'll be here when you get to where you're going."

"Thanks, Sal. I promise, I'll be back soon." I get up and kiss her quickly on the lips before heading out of the apartment.

The frigid January air stings my face and I instantly regret my urge to go for a soul-searching walk. I wander towards Washington Square Park, and I end up sitting at my usual bench. After an incredibly unproductive half hour of staring at a rock formation in the distance, I realize I need to take matters into my own hands. I reach into my back pocket, and retrieve the pack of cigarettes Rory gave me. I know how much she hates it when I smoke, but somehow she figured I'd be needing it. And she's right. I smoke when I'm nervous, but why am I nervous? I toss the cigarettes aside. For once, I need to deal with this shit on my own.

Somehow it all comes back to Jimmy and Liz. Jimmy wasn't a father, he said it himself. So maybe it's good he booked it out of there while he still could. And Liz didn't have to say, but being a mother definitely wasn't too high on her priority list either. I want to blame it all on Jimmy and make a case for myself, but I know better now. This has nothing to do with Jimmy, and a lot to do with my being terrified. I know that I'm afraid of this, and I know what is at stake. I know it because I looked at Rory just now and I had this sudden image of a little person with Rory's eyes and my smile and it's this _thing_ that Rory and I created, together. And I think about loving it, making it laugh, protecting it, and teaching it everything I know. But in the same moment I think of abandoning it, disappointing it, ruining it. I teach it to hate, I teach it to run, I teach it to do all these things so that it can hurt someone the way I've been hurt.

But I wouldn't wish that upon anyone. Seventeen-year old Jess probably would have done that. Seventeen-year old Jess would have been out the door the second Rory even mentioned she was pregnant. Seventeen-year old Jess would have run. But I don't do those things anymore. And I know exactly who I have to thank for that. It's all Rory, who I imagine has fallen asleep from the sheer exhaustion of her hysteria. Rory, who I fall more in love with every single day. A person, of unknown identity, who I have yet to see or hear or touch but with whom I feel so irrevocably in love. Twenty-seven year old Jess has nothing to run from. Twenty-seven year old Jess has every reason to stay.

As expected, Rory is passed out on the couch with _To Kill a Mockingbird _resting in her lap when I get back. I toss off my shoes and climb back next to her on the couch, causing her to stir. She sleepily reaches out to me, ushering me to squeeze next to her so we are both laying horizontally on the couch. "Did you find yourself out there?" she jokes, kissing me gently on the lips and draping her free arm over my waist.

"Something like that." I offer her the faintest trace of a smile, but she knows we still need to talk. She picks up the copy of _To Kill a Mockingbird_ and places it on the coffee table, scattered with apartment photos from earlier. She stares at the cover intently.

"Atticus is one of the greatest parents but Jem still manages to break his arm when he's not looking. I don't know how to fix a broken arm." She says sadly.

"The wonders a bottle of Skele-gro can do…"

"You're obnoxious. There is a human being inside of me who will potentially have a broken arm fourteen years from now and we are suggesting we take it to the hospital wing?"

"Madame Pomfrey doesn't discriminate against muggles…" I take enjoyment in torturing her, but then continue more seriously. "Rory, I'm sorry about leaving earlier. I didn't…" She raises up a hand to silence me.

"Jess, it's fine, really." she reassures me sincerely, running her thumb affectionately along my jawline. "You had approximately ten seconds to process, I had a week."

"A week?"

"Yeah, I've been trying to tell you, but every time the opportunity presented itself I chickened out and suggested we watch Beverly Hills Cop."

"Everything's making sense now…"

"I love Eddie Murphy as much as the next person, but yeah… that's essentially it."

"Ror…" She pulls out a slip of folded paper from the hardcover.

"When you just went out, I challenged myself to make a list about the rules of parenting and this is what I came up with." She passes me the list. "Do you have any meaningful contributions to make?"

I scan the mostly blank piece of paper, trying suppress my laughter. "Ror, this list is blank…"

"No, there's some stuff on there!" She says this with a tone of defensiveness, and she unsuccessfully attempts to grab the paper out of my hands.

"Yeah, you have 'water slides on the fourth of July' and 'cinnamon toast crunch' underscored three times each, and 'NO STEPHEN KING AFTER TEN' written in caps."

"Well, I always used to think that water parks are such a parent-y thing to do. Cinnamon toast crunch is arguably the greatest cereal in existence, and honestly do _you_ want to read Stephen King after ten at night?" She folds her arms across her chest triumphantly. I laugh, handing her back the list.

"Rory, we have no idea how to be parents." Of all the statements I have to choose from, somehow these are the most reassuring. Rory isn't nearly as convinced.

"That's an incredibly comforting thought. Do I get a teddy bear too?" I kiss her hair, before leaning over to pick up _To Kill a Mockingbird. _I skim the novel, easily locating the quote I want to share with Rory.

"You know Atticus may neglect Jem when he plays football, but he also says that 'real courage is knowing you're licked before you begin but you begin anyway and see it through no matter what'." I close the book, carefully setting it down on the table. "We're screwed Ror, but we're gonna figure it out. We always do. We're gonna see this through."

She considers this. "And if seeing it through no matter what leaves us with a messed up kid who breaks his arm every two weeks?"

"Then at least our kid will know the difference between John Bonham and Brandon Flowers."

"…and watch _Boogie Nights_ once a month."

"…and help you give up Indian food once and for all."

"Well in that case I'm going to make it my mission that he/she hates Hemingway."

"I wouldn't go that far."

"Trust me, it won't take much. We'll be leading the book burnings by the time fifth grade rolls around."

"Look at us, we're pros already."

Rory suddenly crawls on top of me so that she is straddling me. She grabs both of my hands and places them on her stomach, and leans down to kiss me deeply. "Hey."

"Hi." I murmur into the kiss, moving my hands up to cup Rory's face in my hands.

"This is kinda cool isn't it? Weird, but cool." Her voice is just barely above a whisper, but her excitement is infectious.

I pull away for a moment and look thoughtfully at Rory Gilmore, wondering if she will ever truly know the depth of how much she has saved me. "Yeah, it is. It's really cool."

**A/N: Thank you so much for all the awesome support on the last chapter. I'm so happy everyone really liked Catherine and wanted to know about where she comes from. I know she wasn't in this chapter, but I promise next update we are going back to the present, where you'll all get better acquainted with our favorite literati child. I definitely thought some of the stuff from this chapter was a little fluffy, but what do you guys think? What would you guys like to see in the future? I have the next couple of chapters planned out, but I am open to suggestions! Love you all. **


	6. The Grapes of Wrath

Chapter 6 – The Grapes of Wrath

_California, Summer 2003 (sometime after Rory graduates from Chilton)._

"Thought I'd find you here." A voice from the peripheral jolts him back to reality, far away from thoughts of his last moments with a certain brown-haired, yellow backpack-wielding girl on a bus ride he just wants to forget. When he sees that it is Jimmy, he scowls and turns back towards the ocean, his eyes firmly set on an arbitrary spot in the distance.

"Here to take me home for staying up past my bedtime?" His voice is coated with derision, but it doesn't deter Jimmy.

Instead, Jimmy chuckles, taking a seat next to him. "Nah, time-outs were never my style, Jess." He pulls out a pack of cigarettes, carefully hidden from Sasha. He isolates a single cigarette, gently tugging it from the case. He passes it to Jess, who tacitly accepts this gift with a nod. "_This_, however, has always been my style." Jimmy pulls out a second cigarette and a lighter, lighting Jess's cigarette and subsequently lighting his own.

"So, leaving tomorrow." Jess silently nods in response to this statement, keeping his eyes peeled ahead. "Have any idea where you're headed?"

"Not a clue." He utters resolutely, and he means it. Jess folds his arms across his chest. Neither party speaks for a loaded thirty seconds before Jimmy takes reign of the conversation.

"Don't want to talk, I get it. I'll just cut to the chase – she's not going to forget about you, Jess." Jimmy's voice is resolute and firm.

"Who are you _talking_ about?" Jess asks sharply, taking another long drag on his cigarette before tossing the burnt-up stub over the guardrail and into the sand on the beach below.

"The girl you've been thinking about when you come to this bench every god damn night since you've gotten here." Jess says nothing because he knows better than to try and refute this statement. Jimmy understands. "I'm not trying to jump in and be super dad after all this time, but as a fellow bullshitter wise beyond his years, I can tell you that you'd be lying to yourself if you acted like this wasn't about her. You're about to leave California and you still are just as much a mess as when you got here."

Jess ignores this, so Jimmy continues. "Lucky for you, you're figuring it out a month after, versus me, eighteen years after the fact." His voice is light but full of remorse. When Jess doesn't respond to this, Jimmy decides to switch tactics. "I figure I would've left Liz at one point or another, but there were these times where I'd be sitting around listening to Bowie wondering if I'd stuck around if you would've been right there listening with me."

He lifts his head slightly to meet his gaze, before dropping his head again in disappointment, temporarily pushing his father's statement to the back of his mind. "She said she thinks she might have loved me but now she's going to let that go." It is the first time he's said it out loud since hearing it, and he immediately wishes he hadn't because now he feels the finality of the situation and it feels even worse than what he imagines death to be like.

"She _still_ loves you." Jimmy insists, and peers over at his son's resigned expression. "Last year Lily comes home crying, and Sasha and I just couldn't figure it out. So we go to her room and decide to force it out of her. She goes to her closet and pulls out this collection of letters that Sasha got her at the bookstore for her birthday last year and starts reading us this one letter. You're the brains here, so you'd probably know. It's from the guy who wrote that boring book everyone had to read in high school about a drought or something. Grapes of Something? I don' know…"

"_Grapes of Wrath?"_

"That's the one. And the author's name… Jack? James?"

"John Steinbeck?"

"Yeah, that guy. Anyway, she sits me and Sasha down, because apparently she has some kind of emotional revelation that she needs to explain to us because the message is so beautiful. This girl is twelve years old by the way. And she tells us that this guy's son falls in love with a girl at boarding school, and he's all bent out of shape about it. And when he tells his him, the father just writes back to the kid and says that he shouldn't worry about it, and you know why? Because nothing good gets away."

"Huh." Jess says contemplatively, leaning back against the bench.

"I thought it was a pretty cool thing to think about. If this girl was really as good as you're thinking she was, she's sitting somewhere feeling all this shit you're thinking too."

"Who knew after all this time a literary critic was dwelling in the depths of Jimmy Mariano's tortured hippy soul?" Jess teases, his voice lighter than he had been a few minutes prior.

"The things you learn when you aren't busy stealing garden gnomes and staging fake murders."

"Touché." Jess appraises his father amusedly before speaking again, his voice dropping to a whisper. "She was good. She was more than good; she was the best thing that ever happened to me."

Jimmy replies softly. "Then she's not going anywhere. Good people figure out a way to get back to you."

Jess knows very well that he has said these words to himself more times in the past month than he can even recount. Each time, less believable than the next. And yet, it comes out of the mouth of Jimmy Mariano, the most unreliable person (next to himself) on this June evening while sitting on a bench surrounded by a shroud of cigarette smoke, and it starts to make the remotest of sense. In this moment, he is grateful to be sitting next to his father in comfortable silence.

"And just to set the record straight," Jess starts suddenly, the faintest trace of a smile forming on his lips. "Bowie's alright, but if I'd have been there we'd be listening to Led Zeppelin instead."

**A/N: Just a short conversation I always wanted for Jess and Jimmy. There's so much of Jess in Jimmy (as much as he never wanted to admit it); especially his propensity to run. I felt there was a lesson to be learned there, and in my mind this scene was always something that needed to happen. The letter I reference I've read so many times; it comes from a book titled **_**John Steinbeck: A Life in Letters. **_**This letter in particular is from November 1958. It's beautiful you should all check it out on the internet via google search or just read the full book. Either works. **

**I know I originally promised some Catherine, but I wanted to include this because in my storyverse, it influences Jess's decision to not let go of his love for Rory. Next chapter will be much longer, have Catherine, Catherine's boyfriend, and much more Lit fun.  
**


	7. The Picture of Dorian Gray

Chapter 7- The Picture of Dorian Gray

"This is terrifying." I state definitively, nodding my head.

"I can't believe people live this way." Rory says in complete awe, watching all of the rich, sadly misinformed Whole Foods shoppers deliberate over brands of organic cheeses worth more than the pair of shoes I was currently wearing.

"And you come here whenever you're at Union Square?" I wonder to myself, cringing internally as we pass a table coined "Bloomy-Rind" cheeses. It smells more like vomit to me, but I suppose that's debatable.

"Just the one time, but I needed you to experience it for yourself too." She states this obviously. _Obviously_ I needed to come to an organic food store to people watch.

"We're at Whole Foods, not the Bronx Zoo." I remind her seriously, as we sidestep a group of three children jumping on top of each other as their mother closely examines Swiss chard.

"I feel like I'm stepping into a different world. I mean look at these people!"

"Yeah, this social scene is bumping."

"And the music." She points towards the ceiling speakers, which currently has some grating indie-folk band crooning indecipherable lyrics pouring out of them.

"CBGB's got nothing on this place, they should just relocate here." I mutter sarcastically. "I thought we needed bananas and almond milk?" I remind her, changing the subject.

"Rookie mistake, Jess Mariano." She says in mock disappointment. "When would I, Rory Gilmore, ever allow either of those vile substances to cross into our threshold?"

"Good point." I confess, wrapping an arm around her shoulder and kissing her hair softly. 

"It's okay, I'll allow it." She says dismissively with a flick of the hand disconnecting herself to compare prices of caviar that she will never purchase nor consume.

"Well thank god for that." I mutter to myself miserably, following closely behind.

"Here, just pick someone and pretend he's Mick Jones. Then it'll really feel like CBGB's." She puts down the caviar, looking around the immediate area finally settling on a victim. "Like him."

"More like Brad Pitt meets Lou Reed."

"Young Lou Reed."

"Meets a quasi-drug addiction." 

"Meets a baby."

"What?"

"He's got a cute butt." She says sheepishly, leaning closer with a smirk. "Are you jealous?"

"Not even a little." I swoop in, kissing her swiftly on the lips. "Cute butts are exactly what I look for in my musicians."

"You should say hi." She says decidedly.

"You're _so_ right." I casually take her hand we stroll along, finally escaping the pungent seafood section. I turn towards her, a look of mock apprehension on my face. "Should I fix my hair first?" Drug-Addict-Benjamin-Button hears us and looks over his shoulder bemusedly.

"Shhh!" She urges, clapping a hand over my mouth. "He's going to hear us!" I unclasp Rory's hand from my mouth, kissing it gently.

"Can we go home? I really want pizza." I give Rory my best attempt at a pout. She rolls her eyes.

"Dominos?" She offers. I smile gratefully as she pulls me towards the Whole Foods exit.

"So now that you've made me experience Whole Foods, can I never step foot in this whole grain torture chamber ever again?"

"Jess, you have to admit that the social aspect – " She sighs in response to my cocked eyebrow. "If we aren't out of here in the next sixty seconds I'm going to puke from the smell of wheat germ."

"Looks like your boyfriend is heading out too." I joke, nodding fifty feet ahead us as we step out onto 13th street, hand in hand.

"Oooh, let's follow him!" She shrieks excitedly, causing mystery man to turn around again.

"He's definitely calling the cops." I say, shooting the guy an apologetic look.

"We're going in the same direction as him!" She whispers back fiercely.

"Seems like we're headed to the exact same place." I comment amusedly, watching at a short distance as this guy is buzzed into our building. We enter as well, following him up the three flights of stairs, until we are all standing at apartment 3F. He turns around with a look of mild surprise.

"Hi." He says quickly, scanning our faces confusedly.

"Hi." Rory says back, suspiciously.

"So." He states nervously, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Do you live here?" He nods towards the door.

"Yeah." I say, narrowing my eyes. "Do you?"

"Oh—I—" Realization dawns on his face. "It's really nice to meet you, I'm actually here for—"

At that exact moment, Catherine opens the door, a horrified expression on her face. Her curly brown hair is teased out and her eyes are outlined with a dark sapphire eyeliner, enhancing her electric blue eyes. She's holding her beloved, tattered copy of _The Picture of Dorian Gray_, her index fingers saving her spot in the book. "I thought you guys were coming home later." She mumbles pathetically.

"Huh. Interesting." I remark, cocking an eyebrow at my daughter's guilty expression. "So this is…" Mystery man realizes that I am referring to him, and awkwardly jumps into action. He reaches out to shake my hand.

"Robert… actually Rob." He waffles back and forth between the two, and finally settles. "It's Robert."

"Redford?" Rory questions with a smirk.

"Don't think I've thrown any Gatsby-level parties lately, but I appreciate the implication." His ability to keep up is somewhat impressive. Rory is already swooning beside me.

"Cool." Rory says with a wide smile, meeting my gaze. She adopts the same doe-eyed expression as she had in Whole Foods, nodding her head in approval as though he were an entertaining museum exhibit. So _this_ is the guy, Cat's been sneaking around with. I mentally run down a check list of everything I know about him so far. He knows who Robert Redford is, and looks like him too. He lives in New York. He has the classically handsome look of a movie star, who may or may not be battling drug addiction. He is the sole provider of Cat's various hickeys, and wanders around Whole Foods on Saturday evenings. He wanders around Whole Foods on Saturday evenings…

"So why exactly were you in Whole Foods on a Saturday?" I blurt out, and everyone turns and looks at me.

"Social experiment." He says with a shrug, completely unabashed. Cat suppresses laughter and Rory shoots me a look of smug satisfaction.

"Are we done with this painful interaction?" Catherine begs, nervously playing with her sleeve.

"Cat, we're just getting to know Jay Gatsby, and you want to take that away from us?" I feign disappointment, folding my arms across my chest. 

"Yeah, we even followed him home!" Rory explains pointedly. Catherine shakes her head perturbed, what did she even expect? Meanwhile, Rob looks away, trying to stifle his laugher at Cat's reaction.

"Okay, as much as I'm enjoying this pow-wow," I admit, deciding to take it easy on Catherine. "I'm really trying to order pizza. You guys wanna stay?"

Cat looks nervously from me to Rory to Rob. "Actually, we were just heading out. I just have to grab something from my room. Rob. You come. " She quickly grabs Rob's arm pulling him inside. Rory and I follow suit, overhearing their conversation.

"Really Cat? Oscar Wilde, again?" He muses with a chuckle, eyeing the copy of _The Picture of Dorian Gray_ with a knowing smirk. "Your obsession with imprisoned authors is somewhat disconcerting."

"Okay first of all," Cat starts petulantly, turning the corner down the hallway towards her room. Rory and I stop at the edge of the hall, still spying on her conversation. "If Cervantes hadn't been in jail in the first place he probably wouldn't have even written _Don Quixote."_

"What a shame that would have been." Rob mutters sardonically. He laughs and Cat swats at him aggressively. Rob catches her hand mid-swat, and holds it tenderly as Cat's face contorts with anger.

"Oh I'm sorry" Cat retorts, her eyes wild in a way so incredibly characteristic of Rory. She disappears into her room, and Rob follows suit. "The real shame here is the person who reads _As I Lay Dying _and finishes the book with a stupid grin on his face."

"You're really gonna hold Faulkner against me?" He questions incredulously. "You stole my copy of _Brave New World_ and never gave it back."

"You're a sadist." Although her words are harsh, her voice is lilting. "And here's your stupid book." She picks the book off the hallway bookshelf, tossing it to him from the hall, and returning to the room. "I liked it."

"You like it." He replies huskily.

"The book, or the fact that you're a complete sadist?"

"Both." 

There is silence for a moment, and I can hear their bodies moving closer together. Suddenly I feel as though I am intruding on a private moment. Rory and I apparently have this thought at the same time, and tacitly agree to leave them alone. She laces her fingers with mine, gesturing towards our room.

"He's just like you." She says, steering me towards the wall, gently pressing me against it with her body. She rests her head against my chest.

"I mean I know I have a cute butt, but I hardly look like Robert Redford." I whisper huskily into her hair. Rory lifts up her head and repositions herself so that our faces are adjacent.

"Did you see he took Cat's copy of _Dorian Gray_ and shoved it in his back pocket? She didn't even notice; she was too busy getting lost in his eyes." I laugh at the thought of Catherine, who never misses a beat, missing something as blatantly obvious as someone taking a book right out of her hands. 

"Huh, Dodger 2.0."

"I like the original Dodger better." She murmurs directly into my ear. Her warm breath makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. In this moment I am acutely aware of the way our bodies are melded together. I gently begin kissing Rory's neck, eliciting soft, pleasurable moans from Rory. In the next room, we hear Cat turn her music on, and realize we are in plain sight of the rest of the world. Rory smiles embarrassedly at me, tugging on her shirt.

"So he took the book?" I ask quickly, changing the subject.

"Definitely took the book." She says, also regaining composure. "It had the huge red paint splatter on the back cover from last summer, can't miss it." Rory looks at me with a smile, remembering her and Cat's short stint last summer when they tried their hand at creating their own Jackson Pollocks. Many casualties accumulated that summer in the form of paint-splattered walls, books, and even furniture. There's still a corner of our living room that has red, blue, purple, and black paint splatters. We grew to love that mess, and never really fixed it.

"If he's really Dodger 2.0, he'll make the fatal mistake of writing in Cat's book. I don't think his outcome will be as prosperous as mine was." If there's anything this guy needs to know, it's that Cat is incredibly possessive over her books. She borrows most of her books from Rory and myself, but the few that she goes out and buys herself (like _Dorian Gray)_, you aren't allowed to touch. Ever.

"Hey, I was pretty upset about that!" Rory mocks, kissing my jawline no-so-innocently.

"Oh, I bet you were." I whisper back, resting my forehead against hers. We stay like this for a moment, until Rory pulls back suddenly.

"I think she might love him." She says quietly. "Maybe, I don't know yet. But I could see it happening. I know that look." A look of admiration passes on Rory's face.

"Yeah." I say distractedly, looking in the direction of Cat's room, the Ramones playing softly in the background. It feels like yesterday that I was the one sneaking around, shoving books into my back pocket.

"I guess this means we're old and irrelevant now." Rory considers sadly, pulling the words out of my head.

"I wanted to say something witty to refute that." I wrap my arms around Rory's waist, hugging her body against my own. "But I'm coming up blank. We are officially irrelevant, old people now." Rory silences me with another kiss, and this time there is no use resisting the attraction. I deepen the kiss, pushing Rory back against the wall a little too enthusiastically. Her head bumps a metal photo frame, and it falls on the tile floor, clanging loudly.

"Jesus Christ you guys – get a room! Oh wait, you _have _one. Use it!" Cat calls from her doorframe, her disgusted face poking out into the hallway. She disappears into her room shaking her head in disapproval and turns up the music so that "Sheena Is a Punk Rocker" can be clearly heard throughout the house. When Cat closes her bedroom door, Rory giggles, cups my face in her hands, kissing me deeply.

"Come on grandpa," she murmurs against my mouth, slipping her hand inside my shirt to graze the skin of my lower back with her fingers. "Let's get you to bed."

"What about the pizza?" I question, but Rory's yearning gaze and wandering hands suffice for an answer. "I guess pizza can wait."

**A/N: Hope you guys liked this one! I have been crazy busy with school, but everyone's support for this story is honestly so wonderful, it makes me want to write more. For those of you who aren't familiar, Whole Foods is this gimmicky organic grocery store that prides itself on having the highest quality everything, but really (in my opinion) it's just a bunch of ridiculously overpriced holistic stuff. Thank you to all my regular readers, and new readers as well! Anyway, I would love to hear your thoughts on this chapter, love you all.**


	8. Persuasion

Chapter 8 – Persuasion

**A/N - **** I am so sorry this update took forever and a day. Life got in the way of writing, and then I've been feeling really uninspired. If this chapter isn't up to par, that's why. I felt I could have done a better job with this, but I wanted to post something. I would love feedback on how you guys felt about this chapter. If you hated it/loved it/thought it was average – I want to hear it. I got so much great feedback on my last few chapters, and I just wanted to say I love all the people who take the time to read, review, favorite, and follow this story SO much.**

**I'm doing this at the beginning to explain some of the references for those of you who aren't native to the New York City area. The MoMa is the common abbreviation for the Metropolitan Museum of Art. New York Magazine has this approval matrix where they talk about current people and topics in the news and place them in one of four quadrants in order to definitively rank someone's actions in terms of whether or not it is highbrow/lowbrow and brilliant/despicable. Persuasion actually is the last novel that Jane Austen published before she died.**

"Why can't I just throw up?" Rory throws her head down in frustration, accidentally knocking her head on the porcelain of the toilet. "Ow!" She drunkenly yells in frustration. She uses one hand to rub her now-red forehead, and the other to secure the pink-bedazzled tiara to her head.

"This is a hot mess." I laugh, clumsily attempting to tie Rory's long brown hair into a ponytail so it stops falling into the toilet. I unexpectedly hiccup and lose a couple of strands from the bundle. "Fuck, I'm not doing much better."

"By all means, stand here and watch my self-destruction unravel." She tilts her head sloppily toward me. She lifts her finger with something potentially witty to say, but drops it resignedly. "You can write a book about me called _Portrait of a Drunk Journalist as _a… I don't know actually. I've got nothing."

"Come here, Courtney let's go back to rehab." I gently pull Rory away from the toilet, still laughing, into my arms. To stop the world from spinning, I lean my head against the tiled wall of our bathroom.

"No way. I'm too rock and roll right now for a stint in rehab." Rory says sardonically, her voice muffled by my navy dress shirt. She curls up into my lap and I kiss her hair. It momentarily distracts me from how dizzy I am, but the weight of her body against my stomach inevitably makes me more nauseous.

"Lorelai sure knows how to throw a bachelorette party, huh." I remark. "Can't say the same for Matt and Chris."

"What did Cheech and Chong do to my poor baby?" She coos, wrapping her arms around my neck.

I laughed. "Honestly, the last thing I remember is chugging a bottle of tequila and throwing this stupid looking piñata Chris carried around his neck the whole night off the Brooklyn Bridge." I struggle to remember the rest, before adding thoughtfully. "Chris was pretty pissed about the piñata. I think there was an actual gift inside, but he didn't exactly disclose that information."

She snorts, sitting up slightly and stretching out her arms. "I think my kidnapping was fun." Her eyes widen, and she lifts up her shirt to reveal a red, slightly swollen tattoo. "I got a tattoo. I'm still drunk, so I'll probably be more horrified by it in the morning."

"What am I looking at?" I pick up my head to get a better look at her stomach. "It looks like a Rorschach test gone wrong."

Rory laughs again, digging in the pocket of her jeans to pull out a crumpled napkin with pizza stains and some sort of haphazardly drawn doodle. "I gave this to the tattoo artist and told him to 'make my artistic vision a reality'."

"Yikes."

"I'm an artist." She explains pragmatically, appraising the greasy napkin with a mixture of pride and shame.

"Yeah, something like that."

"Hey!" She says defensively, snatching the napkin back from me. "It's _abstract."_

"I've been to the MoMa before, don't remember seeing that there."

"Yeah well… I'll leave that out of my interview with _New York Magazine. _I'm highbrow and brilliant." Rory sleepily smiles, climbing out of my lap to lie down. She kisses me softly on the lips before she gets up and gently tugs at my hand. I join her on the hard, cold, yet surprisingly comfortable tile floor. I lean forward to kiss her again, but she is surveying my face with a vacantly happy expression.

"You look like Peter Petrelli." She states definitively.

"I'm the more attractive version." I correct her.

"And what powers do you have to offer me, as the sexier Peter Petrelli?"

"Offer you…" I repeat to myself, shaking my head in mock disapproval. "What am I, your indentured servant?"

"Something like that."

"I have…the power of seduction." I suggest charmingly, grazing my fingers along her bare midriff.

"Ooh I like that one." She purrs into my neck, pressing her body against mine. "Wait a second—why is my copy of _Persuasion_ on the sink? I thought you were going to read it." She pulls herself away from me, distracted by the dilapidated paperback novel sitting on the ledge above us.

"Ror – I told you I read it already." I lie, hoping that in her state of inebriation we won't have to get into this discussion for the third time this week.

"You definitely didn't. I left it on the sink purposefully because I know you never read it in the bathroom. If you had read it, it wouldn't be here anymore." She explains seriously, ignoring the incredulous look on my face.

"That makes so much sense. So it was Colonel Mustard in the bathroom with a candlestick, then?" She rolls her eyes.

"You're a lot easier to figure out than a game of Clue."

"Easy to say when you are incapable of beating me." I mumble triumphantly.

"Maybe, but this is different." She insists. "This is high stakes."

"At what point in this world did American Idol become high stakes?"

"Ryan Seacrest is always high stakes, Jess. You should pay a little closer attention to the world around you." I decide to change the subject.

"Every time you make me read Jane Austen a little part of my soul dies."

"And the Academy Award goes to…"

"…you know she actually died a little bit after finishing this book? It is probably cursed." I muse impishly, interrupting her. "Do you want me to die? I don't want to die…" I trail off ominously, but it is to no avail. Even a highly intoxicated Rory Gilmore can see through my bullshit.

The next thirty seconds unfold a little too quickly to fully comprehend. Rory stands up quickly to grab the book, but loses her balance, smacks it off the counter, and falls back into my arms on the floor. The book falls into the toilet, and the momentum of Rory's fall finally pushes her to her knees over the border to projectile vomiting into the toilet, into the water, and all over the now soggy, destroyed novel. Rory looks into the toilet, horrified. She has committed the sacrilegious act of destroying a book. For me, it is a blessing in disguise.

"No, no it's okay, I can still save it." She clumsily reaches into the toilet for the book, and I stop her before she sticks her hand into a toilet bowl of puke.

"I am too drunk for this!" I yell, eliciting laugher for both Rory and myself. I peer into the toilet and the sight of the soggy paperback book covered in the pink chunky substance that is Rory's vomit and back at Rory, shaking my head.

Three hours later, we have switched positions. Rory is cradling my head against her chest as I alternately moan in pain and add to the growing, disgusting stockpile of puke that is our toilet.

"I don't think I'm gonna finish that book." I groan into the toilet bowel, .Rory is curled up on the floor next to me, continuing to rub my back in comforting circles.

"Unless you want to fish it out and read between the soggy lines, I'm absolving you of all responsibility when it comes to reading that book." Rory laughs, in better spirits that me right now. She kisses me softly on the lips when I manage to peel myself away from the toilet, joining her on the hard, cold, yet surprisingly comfortable tile floor. I kiss her again.

"You taste like vomit and tequila." She murmurs into the kiss, pulling away mildly disgusted.

"Really feeling the love right now, Ror." She pulls herself closer to my body, and I instinctively wrap my arms around her in response. "I promise you, yours isn't much better."

"Tired. Need sleep." I sigh, scooting sideways closer to the door so that Rory has more room. We fall into a comfortable silence.

"Jess," She mumbles again, almost inaudibly. "Set your alarm for seven a.m."

"Why would I do that?" I groan, reaching out in the darkness of the bathroom for my phone. "It's five in the fucking morning."

"Because," She whispers, "We're getting married tomorrow."

"Huh." I open my eyes to look at Rory for a second, and can't help but smile and kiss her on the cheek. "I guess I could wake up early for that."

"The toilet is completely clogged with our vomit right now." She laughs at the thought of this. "Pretty decent precursor to the rest of our lives."

"And I don't have to read that piece of shit book anymore since we destroyed it with said vomit." I remind her happily. "The rest of our life sounds pretty cool right now."

"We're too romantic." Rory says with a sigh, nestling her head into the crook of my neck.

"We should probably tone it down." I agree with her, closing my eyes.

Rory doesn't respond at first, and I find myself getting sleepier and sleepier. She speaks suddenly after three minutes. "Fuck Clue."

I keep my eyes on a now-sleeping Rory. I grab a bath towel off the rack and throw it on top of us as a makeshift blanket. We're getting married tomorrow and I'm sleeping on the bathroom floor next to the person with whom I'm going to spend the rest of my life. We spent the entire night puking into a toilet that was actually pretty broken to begin with and we probably clogged it again, and our superintendent is going to take it out of our deposit, but really that's all just white noise to me. Who gives a fuck. There's this incredibly person who I managed to find in this fucking world and she is my person in this world She is lying next to me with a doodle of a tattoo that she's going to have a stroke about tomorrow and vomit stains caking her favorite pair of jeans and she has never looked more beautiful to me in my entire life. I know she wouldn't hear me if I said anything so instead, I just pull her a little closer to me and fall asleep just like that, on the cold, yet surprisingly comfortable tile floor.


End file.
